


Stranger to Myself

by Marasa



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Dom/sub, Kneeling, M/M, Role Reversal, Sexual Frustration, handjob, kind of, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 12:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marasa/pseuds/Marasa
Summary: The wind changed.





	Stranger to Myself

The wind changed.

At first after the avian murder, but then again after Thomas’ reign had come to an end.  Thomas did not know it was the end but Winslow knew, and that was all that mattered.

Winslow stood in the doorway. Thomas barely glanced back at him, was instead focused in on the dirty lantern in his hand.

“Brought these here lanterns up out from under the sink. All of ‘em dirtied to shit. Sit down, laddie, and get to work cleanin’ them out.”

They didn’t need more lanterns. They had plenty. Winslow knew that. Thomas did too.

But it wasn’t about the action itself but more about Thomas instructing him to do something, and for Thomas, the more inane and useless, the better.

Sometimes Winslow didn’t know he was awake. 

Cleaning and polishing and building and repairing and shoveling and painting ushered him into a sort of mindlessness that made him forget who he was. 

He had just returned from outside, where he had been wheeling a hefty pile of coal to the lighthouse. A wind had hit him a certain way and he had come to halfway to the glowing, stone prick. 

Winslow had shaken his head, peeled off his shirt, slapped his pecs, squeezed his biceps. 

_ Wake up. Wake up. _

He was awake now, feverish and furious in the doorway. The collection of lamps crowding the dining table promised to take away his identity for the coming night but Winslow wasn’t keen on losing himself yet.

“What’s takin’ ya so long? I said get over here-“

“No.”

Thomas whipped his head to him. His expression of irritation was overtaken by one of awe almost immediately. Thomas stalled, stared at the shirtless sight of feral masculinity looming close by.

Winslow’s nostrils flared. His jaw tightened. 

Thomas blinked uncertaintly at him. 

“What did ye say?”

Winslow didn’t repeat himself. 

Thomas stood up from the table, set the lamp aside. Winslow came forward a few steps just as Tom did and it felt like two forces of nature facing off. 

“Speakin’ like that to your captain? I reckon you’re in need of a reminder of your cursed place.” Thomas pointed a finger down at the floor as he glared up at him. “Kneel down, dog.”

The command appealed to the part of Winslow that yearned to grovel and submit. He’d done it with attitude in the past, a sort of simmering irritation, but he had yet to disobey.

This time Winslow didn’t move. 

His bare chest was wide. It rose and fell as he breathed in deep breath after deep breath. He was as strong as a wild animal and the pure power Thomas felt radiating off of him was frighteningly immovable. 

The older man’s hand trembled. Thomas was intimidated beneath his mask of arrogant anger. He took a step closer to Winslow and he was another inch shorter. 

“Ye like getting down on your knees for me,” Thomas spat up at him. “So what’s wrong? What’s wrong with ye this time that ye ain’t droolin’ for it like you always do!?”

“I ain’t listen’ to ya,” Winslow grumbled lowly. “I’m done listenin’ to ya, ya old urchin.”

“Watch who ye talkin’ to!”

“You watch your filthy fucking mouth!” Winslow bellowed louder than thunder.

Thomas’ hand retreated back against his chest as he stared wide-eyed up at Winslow. 

A devilish smirk tugged at Winslow’s mouth, insanity burning in his eyes. “It’s my turn.”

Tom shook his head, took a step back. “You’ve gone crazy. The sea has ye.”

“ _ I _ have you. Get down on the ground.”

Thomas squinted at him with hesitation but Winslow gritted his teeth and took a step closer so he was even taller and Thomas slowly sank down onto his knees. Never did he break eye contact with the man who had previously occupied this space on the floor.

Winslow knew it so well. His knees were bruised. His skin had toughened so the splinters no longer bothered him.

No more; Winslow liked standing.

He put a hand on Thomas’ head and shoved his head down so his back bent forward and he was forced to look at the ground.

“Stay. Don’t fuckin’ move.”

Winslow went over to the cupboard and brought out a porcelain dinner plate. He slammed the cupboard door shut. In his periphery, he caught Thomas flinch but he was completely still by the time he was back in front of him. 

He placed the plate between Thomas’ shoulder blades. He squatted down in front of him.

“You let that plate fall,” Winslow whispered, “and you’ll have to answer for it. You don’t fuckin’ want that.”

Thomas looked up at him from under the shadow of his brow, defiance in his eyes. 

Winslow slapped him across the face. The plate trembled but it didn’t fall.

Thomas blinked blearily, looking for a second disoriented and very near to passing out. He steadied out, ever seasoned to the thrashing sea and the unforgiving wind.

Winslow could be worse. He wanted to be worse. 

“You’ll do it,” Winslow said, “because I told you to.”

He stood again. The silence didn’t sit with him but he wanted to keep Thomas’ silver tongue still.

This was be end of Thomas’ influence. This was the end of his insane orders. 

Winslow felt no joy, just a growing rage bubbling in his guts.

He paced the kitchen in angry frustration that was sexual in nature while being simultaneously not. He rambled whispered swears to himself and gripped his cock through his heavy pants and squeezed it, pulled a little too hard. The flesh of his dick stung as it filled with fiery lifeblood. 

Thomas was unaffected, maybe even dismissive, where he focused on his assigned task. It was like he had forgotten Winslow was even in the same room. He might have not even cared to acknowledge him, like Winslow didn’t deserve his attention.

Fury sparked in Winslow’s veins. He stormed up to his kneeling counterpart, clapped his hands together. “Wanna get up? Huh? Huh!?”

Thomas didn’t answer. He didn’t even look up.

The fact struck Winslow as not being particularly submissive because he had seen that same look when Thomas averted his eyes over drinks just seconds prior to saying, “Aye, you’re drunk,” and shitting on whatever sincerity Winslow was spouting. 

Tears would well up in Winslow’s eyes. They’d spill over and Thomas would smile and laugh and call him names and stroke his hair off of his forehead. 

Winslow had never felt so small and inadequate than he had in those moments. 

Thomas kept his eyes on a crack in the floor. The dinner plate remained balanced. 

“You-“ Winslow trembled with red-hot hate. “You look at me!”

Thomas’ eyes slid upward briefly before falling back down. That look in his eyes was familiar. 

Disappointment.

Winslow tugged at his cock through his pants, scraped his fingernails down the shaft. He came closer to Thomas and stomped the floor with his boots over and over and over again inches away from him so that it shook the planks. It jostled Thomas, the plate sliding farther down his spine.

He stomped once, twice, three times mor and the plate crashed to the floor and broke into white shards. 

Tom straightened his spine abruptly but remained kneeling. 

“Ephraim, stop it!”

An order? A plea, maybe. 

There was strength in it but Winslow felt much stronger.

The so-called Ephraim slammed down onto his knees in front of Thomas. Jagged pieces of porcelain dug into his knees but he couldn’t care. He took a handful of Thomas’ wild hair at the back of his head and yanked his head back, his neck craning uncomfortably.

Thomas knew better than to speak; he gave a hiss of discomfort but otherwise kept quiet. 

Winslow hovered millimeters from Thomas’ lips. Their breath mingled together heavy and hot between them. Saliva pooled in Winslow’s mouth. His eyelids fell half-lidded.

“You want me,” Winslow muttered, his soggy bottom barely lip touching Thomas’. “I’m the only one you want.”

Thomas swallowed. “The light-“

“I am the lighthouse.”

Winslow grabbed Thomas’ hand. He pressed it to his bare stomach, held it there. The heat of his body like a bulb burned Thomas’ palm as he gaped up at him. 

The old wickie didn’t look away. He didn’t blink. 

His fingers curled against Winslow’s hard abdomen, a stinging pull of skin aided by the sheen of furious sweat.

Winslow hissed as Thomas scratched down his belly with his dirty fingernails, down the front of his pants. Winslow took Thomas’ wrist in his bruising grip and pushed his hand against his crotch. 

Thomas gripped the hard outline of him.

“Harder,” Winslow huffed.

Thomas barely nodded, squeezed his fingers firmer around him. Winslow bucked his hips against his palm with a panted breath and a whimper sounding embarrassingly pathetic to his own ears. 

Thomas smiled, scoffed a laugh. “Ah, puppy. There ye are, ye dog.”

“Sh- Shut your mouth.”

And Thomas was about to go for it, was about to slip into that little crack in Winslow’s resolve showing his soft, eager to please belly, but then Winslow pulled his head back a little more by his hair and leaned further over him and Thomas went silent.

His hand moved over Winslow's groin in earnest now. The role reversal was exciting; the both of them must have thought so because Thomas rubbed his clothed erection with his palm, squeezed it, stroked it, all while Winslow fucked against his hand at a frantic pace. 

Winslow was rabid by the time his approaching climax tore at his insides. He growled and spat and panted until finally he spilled his seed in his work pants. 

He cried out a too-loud scream against Thomas’ awaiting mouth, feeling like a wave breaking against the shore. 

And Thomas snickered up at him, hand still possessively on his dick, a monster from the deep. 


End file.
